


A Bit Of Rough

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry John becomes Horny John which becomes Dominant John, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Hate sex with love, John is Not Amused, John is a Mess, Loss of Virginity, Loving Hate Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Premature Ejaculation, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sexual Frustration, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is bendy, Sherlock likes things kinky, Wall Sex, if something can go wrong, it will, johns nightmares, safe sex, sod's law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25702375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “Sherlock?” John blinked, eyebrows meeting in the middle and the hand around Sherlock's throat squeezing just a tiny fraction more. He was unsure whether to strangle the detective further or let go. “What the fucking hell are you doing in my room?”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 262





	A Bit Of Rough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplyclockwork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/gifts).



> Kittie and I both recently read ["an unexpected out-cum"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598422) by [simplyclockwork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork) and were so inspired that we couldn't help but do something similar of our own!
> 
> Enjoy!

The frustration had been building for days, weeks. John could feel it itching away at him, throbbing in his temples, prickling his skin with the beading of angered sweat, turning every little thing into an aggravating battle. No matter what it was, whether it be knocking his hip into a chair left askew or accidentally dipping the end of his tie into the soup he was making for work, it all rubbed him the wrong way. Every trip, every wait, every stubbed toe, every missed programme, every creased shirt, made him hotter and overcome with bubbling rage.

He’d had days like it before. He was sure everyone had. Days where nothing went right, where everything was against you, where what could go wrong, did go wrong. Yet it had never gone on for as long as it currently had. It had never been this maddening. Even hearing Sherlock sniffle through a cold at one time had driven John to silently seethe until his ears had popped, his gaze had pulsed.

It didn’t help that during these weeks of hell, there had been four cases. Four that had lasted a few days each, at most. Meaning hours of crappy coffee and even crappier meals. Sleep patterns twisted and turned upside down, inside out, and flayed alive.

This lack of adequate sleep, food and – John had to admit – sexual gratification, had quickly frayed his last nerve.

He snapped at Mrs Hudson when she came up to say goodnight and then sulked into the shower, too tired and irritable to even have a quick one off the wrist. Even the feeling of the water felt wrong, felt annoying. Shampoo somehow got into his eye. The conditioner bottle was empty. His feet slipped against the bottom. The towel fell to the floor before he could reach and grab it. Everything that could aggravate him, did, and he was grinding his teeth and seething with a red-eye and tensing, aching muscles by the time he was done. It didn't take long before he just gave up on the day entirely and was muttering goodnight to Sherlock, heading up to his bedroom to crash, naked and still damp onto his bed. Collapsing into a dead sleep only moments later.

John's nightmares only seemed to erupt into full sleep terrors when he was run down or exhausted, and true to form his brain filled itself with horrific visions of warzones and carnage. Of being under attack and the incredible fear that he couldn't control. Thrashing on the mattress, which was drenched with his own sweat and tears, he awoke with a roar, eyes blinking rapidly and adrenaline pumping.

A shadow. A stranger. A threat.

John leapt from the bed and was over the room in an instant, not worrying about his naked state or the jumbled confusion of his subconscious, instead he grabbed for the shape and pushed it against the wall, one hand around a throat and the other pulled back in a fist, ready to strike.

“ _John_!--” The wheezing, startled, gasping voice was instantly familiar. Instantly recognisable. As were the big, pale hands that scrabbled at his wrist and forearm, fumbling between grasping for a defending clasp and soothingly patting to ease John’s spooked mind. “It’s me… it’s me, John. It’s Sherlock…”

“Sherlock?” John blinked, eyebrows meeting in the middle and the hand around Sherlock's throat squeezing just a tiny fraction more. He was unsure whether to strangle the detective further or let go. “What the _fucking hell_ are you doing in my room?”

Through the gloom and the thicker shadows, he could just about make out Sherlock’s wide eyes and gaping mouth, “I… I was… I…” he stammered, sounding strained and husky with shock. His hands still patting at him. John hated it. Found the pitying, patronising touches infuriating. "I--"

“This isn't a _shared_ area of the house, Sherlock!” John hissed, blood pounding in his ears. He felt his rant bubbling to the surface, knew his voice would be raised, would be loud and echoing around the rafters of his room the next he spoke. “This is my room. _Mine_. - God, I should kick you down the bloody stairs, but I'd be the daft twat who has to fix you up afterwards. _Always me_! - What are you doing in here? Watching me? Experimenting on me? This isn't for you to see!”

Sherlock twitched at the volume and let out a croaky, confused, panicked sort of sound, hands still trying to pacify him, “I… I…” he uttered uselessly, swallowing so hard that John heard the wet click of it as Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed against his palm. John could see how dazed he was, how large his eyes remained, and couldn’t stop himself from flexing his fingers roughly, feeling a sick delight pierce through him at Sherlock’s responding fidgeting. His bare feet stepping on and against John’s own. "I was... was just..." 

The slipping of his wiggling forced John to change position, to push further in against Sherlock's trembling body, uncaring that he was naked and Sherlock was still fully clothed. It was his own bedroom and Sherlock had intruded so it was his own stupid fault. With his flaccid cock pushed into Sherlock's covered hip, John leered in close, incensed by Sherlock's sudden stammering, “Are you _trying_ to drive me insane? Weeks of constant running around, of no sleep and barely any food. Of nights where you screech on your violin or explode things in the bloody oven. I'm sick of it, Sherlock! _I – am – sick to death of it_!” he shouted, mouth only inches from Sherlock's red and flushed face.

Somehow, Sherlock’s eyes got wider still in response and his hands fluttered to a stop, digging in like crushing talons as his body abruptly convulsed in tight, juddering waves. He choked on air, breathing quickly in, out, and then, quite surprisingly, moaned. Moaned long and loud with heat radiating off his cheeks and hips rutting forward. It petered out into a drawn-out, startled, overcome whimper and left Sherlock panting heavily in John’s grasp, against John’s face. He looked horrified, embarrassed, and the most confounded John had ever seen him. The silence that followed was deafening.

“What. Was. _That_?” John asked, confusion twisting his face as he stared at Sherlock quizzically through the darkness, eyes already adjusting enough to let him pick out the man's features, his stunned and frozen expression. “You... look like you've just jizzed your pants…”

“I… I may have…” Sherlock mumbled in admittance, trailing off into an awkward stillness and shifting with a swift eyelash flutter of further mortification, lips pressing together in a wonky wince. "It... it was quite unexpected and... and it... and I..." 

John blinked twice in astonishment and then stepped back, tugging his hand away from Sherlock's throat with a nervous shake. His cock twitched in response, starting to plump against his left thigh and growing to an almost full erection in such a dizzying rush that John felt slightly woozy. Another shock. Another irritant. Another thing working against him. John blamed it on the raising scent of musk, of the heat between them and not the pent up growing fondness which had been surreptitiously growing wildly between them for months. Something he'd tried to ignore.

“Oh… I er--” he began in a mutter, reaching down to half cup his cock in one hand and shuffle awkwardly, nervously, in place. “Sorry? I guess?”

Slumping against the wall, Sherlock took a few shaky, inhales and glanced down at himself, drawing John’s eyes to the very obvious damp, dark patch at the front of his creased dress trousers, visible even in the low light, “These are quite expensive…” he said in a low complaining tone, the only sentence he’d been able to structure so far without stuttering. Sherlock reached down, seconds away from touching, but then must have thought better of it, as he rubbed at his thighs instead with a cough, fingers curling self-consciously. "I only just bought them last weekend--"

“I thought you didn't _do_ sex?” John interrupted with a forming scowl, glancing over to where his robe was hanging, tempted to head over and reach for it. To cover his nakedness. To put a barrier between them so he could think, so he could digest what was happening. The swirl of anger, now mixed with confused arousal, was still present. Still throbbing throughout him. "I thought you were ' _married to your work_?'"

“And how, precisely, is _this_ considered sex?” Sherlock retorted with a haughty sniff and a defensive straightening of his spine. He waved a swift quivering hand towards John in mocking and pointed at the hard, jutting line of his erection, which John was very unsuccessfully concealing. John felt embarrassment scorch his skin in response. “And I thought you _weren’t gay_?”

“M'not. I'm bisexual. Wasn't sure how you'd react if I told you at first… people can be a bit funny about it – and then when I realised that you'd have been fine, I didn't really feel the need. Didn't think it was _relevant_ ,” John retorted sharply through clenched teeth, rolling his shoulder into a half shrug and motioning between them, making sure to point in return with his free hand, “And _this_ is a bit sexual, considering you had an _orgasm_ , so it's closer to sex than anything I've done in months...” 

Sherlock shot him a glare that almost seemed to make his eyes glow and sighed in annoyance, “You’re _still_ doing this?— How is it any fault of mine that you insistently fail to, and I quote, ‘ _get a leg over_?’”

“Because one look at you and everyone thinks we're shagging!” John hissed, attempting to gesture with both hands and almost showing himself before he recovered clumsily, feeling another lick of roasting embarrassment. “Which is fine! But I either wish we _were_ fucking, or I could somehow prove to everyone that we're _not_. Instead, I'm stuck in this weird celibate limbo!”

“… What is that supposed to mean? ‘One look at me?’ How does my appearance constitute us sleeping together? How does it have any significance at all?” he questioned with an animated flailing of his arms, altering his stance, chest heaving. Before John could scowl and counter, teeth still firmly gritted, blood on fire, and hands eager to shove and grasp again in gathering frustration, Sherlock frowned at him and shook his head somewhat helplessly. “ _No_! Don’t. Just… don’t… do _anything_. Don’t say anything. Especially if you’re going to use that… that… that _tone_. That persona--”

“What persona?” John barked, feeling the anger surging again, his emotions all jumbled.

"Your soldier persona. Your _stern-no nonsense-follow my orders_ persona."

" _What_?"

Sherlock's throat worked roughly, "And... and I still don't see how you can blame _me_ \--"

“ _For fuck's sake_ —I was simply saying that people see our bond, our friendship and they _assume_ we're a couple. We're closer than regular friends, Sherlock. We live together and work together and finish each other's sentences sometimes!” John grumbled unhappily. “And anyway! This is _my_ room! Don't tell me what I can and can't do! I can give you a bollocking if I want to, in whatever ' _persona_ ' I want!”

“What for?” Sherlock exclaimed, voice cracking and going slightly high-pitched. He shuddered at John’s replying glower and swallowed with a gasping shiver. “I... I came--"

"Yes, I know you bloody did!" John snorted.

"--I’m _here_ because… you were loud… and so I thought you… and then you just…” Motioning vaguely, ridiculously and clumsily with his hands in his stammering explanation, Sherlock finally groaned in defeat and held up his arms, palms showing in placation. “This is all rather new to me. This… reaction to you _manhandling_ and shouting--”

“ _Manhandling_ ‽” John snarled, “You could have been anyone, you arsehole! I had just woken from a nightmare, Sherlock, I was _terrified_! You're lucky you didn't get drop kicked to the floor with my bollocks on your face!”

Sherlock huffed shakily, trying to ineffectively smother a wanton, grunt of desire, “I... I’ve been in your room while you were dreaming before. My presence _always_ seemed to--”

“ _Excuse me_?—Oh, so, what, you just sneak around in my room in the dead of night?” John glared. “Watching me sleep, me struggle, noticing the stale scent of sweat grow with every passing second, hearing every noise I make…” He paused and tilted his head, jaw cocked to one side, brow furrowing as he narrowed his eyes on Sherlock's shrinking figure. “Bad dreams only, I hope?”

“What other reason would I have for being here?” Sherlock scoffed, swallowing hard again and leaning his head back against the wall at John’s sharpening glare, wincing in quick admission. “No. Not _all_ the time…”

“Does it give you a thrill to see me like that?” John asked, voice going deep and fierce.

At the change, Sherlock rubbed his thighs again before putting his hands on his hips, then crossing his arms, then dropping them with false nonchalance to his sides, “ _No_. I hardly think watching you drool and fart is particularly _thrilling_...”

“Then why do it? Why return, again and again, standing there and _watching_ me?” John demanded. “My dreams are _mine_ to handle, I've done it for a long time. - Do you think I'm weak? Is that it? Do you think I _need_ you standing over me? Babysitting me?” Clenching both hands into the tight, creaking seams of Sherlock's shirt, John pushed roughly on Sherlock's shoulders with increasing pressure. “ _I don't_. I'm a grown man. I don't need a minder, Sherlock!” With that stressed, as he drove Sherlock back, letting his head knock against the wall with great relish.

Biting back a small, interested groan, Sherlock blinked wildly at him and lifted his unsteady hands, “Seems… to me that you can’t handle anything,” he said quiet and husky. “Couldn’t even walk properly when we met.” He was goading John, he could tell, could almost taste it. Sherlock was vibrating with small tremors of want and staring at him with an uncertain expression and flitting gaze. "You... needed me then and you need me now. That's why I enter. That's why I'm here. Because you _need_ me--"

Crowding into Sherlock's space again, not caring that his erection was smearing pre-come across the fabric of Sherlock's trousers, John eyed him up and down until the detective blushed, shifted apprehensively and went silent, “I'm going to kiss you. Right now…” he surprised them both by saying, “because it's either that or I punch you in your smug fucking face.”

“Wh-why not do both?” Sherlock whispered with an impatient quiver, lips twitching into a forced, haughty grin before parting, pink, wet and inviting.

“Shut up!” John snapped before leaning in and taking Sherlock's lips in a forceful, almost brutal kiss. One that sent a spark of painful pleasure through his teeth and gums at the bump. Letting go of Sherlock's shoulders, John used one hand to hold his hip whilst the other moved to grab the back of his hair, tugging him down for an easier position to deepen the kiss, bullying his tongue into Sherlock's mouth with a deep, guttural moan.

A muffled whimper shook through him in return and Sherlock immediately clutched at him, legs buckling as he took a step forward. John kicked him back by the shins and pinned Sherlock up against the wall with a surge of boiling, churning passion, unsure if it was more anger or arousal that fuelled his movements. It felt good to slam Sherlock back, to crush into him, to feel the thin, taut material of his shirt and the hard, round mounds of the struggling buttons against his naked, burning torso. He knew that this was slightly 'not good,' but John also knew that Sherlock was adept at martial arts and could fight back, could push him away if he truly wanted to stop and John would drop this whole situation.

It was a stress relief, a moment of madness, and one John didn't want to end. He used the hand on Sherlock's hip to rumple and yank and stroke up under Sherlock's shirt, fingers skimming across hot flesh and juddering muscle. He could feel the erection renewing against his stomach already, could feel the wetness of Sherlock's previous orgasm smearing and sinking against his skin. It was a heady mix. Tightening his hand in Sherlock's hair, John bit down hard on his bottom lip and drank in the reaction with rolling eyes, gorging himself on Sherlock's wet gasp as he arched his neck to pull his head back, pressing into John’s fingers tangled in his hair and dragging his lip through the gnawing grind of John’s teeth. He was all submissive, writhing enthusiasm, quickly perspiring and slicking against John’s wandering palm and pinching fingers. Sherlock’s nipples were pebbled and stiff, and according to his jolting breath-hitching reaction, very sensitive to any sort of touch, be it the pad of a thumb, or the scrape of a nail. Everything John did, soft, hard, rough, light, sent Sherlock thrashing in ardour. He didn’t struggle, he didn’t tell John to stop, and he didn’t let John let go.

“I want to _fuck_ you,” John whispered into Sherlock's ear, biting and sucking marks into his pretty, flushed neck while he grabbed at his shirt and pulled, sending the buttons flying as they gave up the fight. The sounds they made, connecting with the wall, the floor, and his nearby wardrobe, only spurred John on. He pulled the shirt open and down, exposing Sherlock's spasmodically expanding chest and trapping his corded arms by his side by the elbows. “Can I? I want to fuck you into his wall and make you _scream_ for more...”

The shiver that took Sherlock’s body was almost violent in its promiscuous yearning, “Yes,” he keened, groping at John’s lower back and hips. “ _God yes_!”

“Get these off,” John ordered, though quickly found himself too impatient, too frustrated with the wait to allow Sherlock the freedom and time to strip, and so grabbed at his clothes piece by piece. Tugging and roughly throwing Sherlock's quickly freed shirt to one side and then ripping Sherlock's sodden trousers down his hips, his long bent and shaking legs, and kicking them away.

In no time at all, both were naked together, and John let ate up the dishevelled and salacious vision that was Sherlock Holmes' nude body. His eyes skimmed across his coquettish posture, his broad chest, his lean abdomen, his canted hips, his muscled legs, his flexing toes, and then his curved, darkly flushed, slightly engorged cock before he pounced for another kiss. He grasped hold of the still growing, hardening shape of him, loving the hot, thick and still wet feel of it in his hand. The previous ejaculate only served to increase John's arousal. He moaned, seizing Sherlock's thigh with his other hand and avidly urging the taller man to wrap it around his waist and situate his lanky body so that they were at the right height to rub and rut together.

It took a bit more coaxing, a slap of a buttock, a squeezing pull of his hair, and a bodily knocking buck, but before long Sherlock hooked first one leg, then the other, around John’s body, letting himself slip a few inches down the wall, stabilising himself by wedging his shoulders back and swinging up to clench hold of a close shelf. John could feel every rippling, trembling contraction of Sherlock’s leg and stomach muscles as he worked to keep himself in place, could feel the burn in his own as he took his weight, thrust forward and took a looping grasp of the man’s trim waist. Their movements were off-kilter and sporadic and animalistic after that. Perfectly imperfect. Hitting all the right places. Their bared skin raked with stinging marks as they clawed and gripped at one another, struggling to press and move whilst fondling and clasping.

With Sherlock more or less wrapped around him, John focussed on taking and stroking both of their cocks together, giving long pulls and tight twists as his other hand slipped around to Sherlock's buttock, moving lower and inwards until he could press the tips of his fingers around the small furled entrance, “Do you touch yourself here?” John asked, voice like a purr, sensitising the nerve endings, “with your fingers, or maybe a toy?”

“No,” Sherlock mewled, rocking and canting at the contact. “I only… I only touch there when I wash.”

“Oh… _Fuck_ you're in for a surprise then,” John chuckled throatily, bringing his hand back up to spit on and returning them to slick and stroke in circles. He bit at Sherlock's lips again. "I can't wait to educate you."

Clambering to stay up and getting a shaky, sweaty arm across John’s shoulders, Sherlock grimaced in fascinated pleasure, mouth open enough for John to taste him, to fuck his mouth, to suck at his tongue, and swallow his little moan of curiosity as John added a bit of pressure, “I don’t… always like surprises…”

“You'll like this one...” John promised, then pulled back and unceremoniously rammed Sherlock's legs down, watching him scramble to right himself on his feet, their cocks bumping awkwardly with a moist slap. He untangled their limbs and left Sherlock, naked, dazed and wanting to walk towards his bedside table. John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him the entire way, felt them burning holes into the back of his head, and so he took his time retrieving his bottle of lube, and a strip of condoms, casually, sternly looking back at him. “Turn around, face the wall. Put your hands on it and spread your legs.”

Sherlock eyed the collection, a mottled flush covering most of his body now, and hesitated, a tremor running through him, “Or… or what?” he asked, lifting his chin and licking his lips, giving John a searching, challenging look. "What if I don't want to do as you tell me? I... I only take my orders from competent, intimidating, controlled, disciplined, and... and..." 

John met his eyes, prowling back to him with a smirk and a glower, "And?" he prompted.

"And... undamaged army doctors— _Ah_!" The hand connected hard with the side of Sherlock's thigh and a portion of his buttock, cutting him off, and John savoured the loud crack it made in the short space between them.

"Turn around, face the wall. Put your hands on it and spread your legs. I won't repeat myself a third time." John gave another smack of his hand in enjoyment and though he didn't look to see the skin in the semi-darkness of the room, he guessed it was a solid, throbbing red. His hand was starting to smart from the first impact. When there was still no movement, John hit him again, watched Sherlock's face contort with shocked and agonised pleasure, then took the upper hand and spun him around, kicking his legs apart and bending him at the waist until his cheek was against the cool wallpaper. "Always have to press your luck, don't you? Always have to misbehave. Always have to try my patience, twang at my last nerve!"

Panting, Sherlock lifted his wavering hands, pressing them to the wall above his head, digging his nails in slightly, every muscle twitching and tensing, “Are… you sure you can even reach?” he muttered, clearly provoking.

John grinned at the back of his curly head, “Oh I can definitely reach, don't worry about me,” he replied and opened the lube to drizzle between Sherlock's buttocks, soaking with the liquid before pushing his fingers between his cheeks again. His other hand reached up to grab at Sherlock's hair, pulling his head and shoulders back in a curve. “Mm. Good job you're flexible.”

Lowering his hands somewhat to better brace himself, Sherlock exhaled a breathless groan, eyelids fluttering, “Everything… you are not— _Mm_!” The rough nudge from John’s foot widened Sherlock’s stance further and he slid into the new position, lifting his hips back. From what John could see of him, Sherlock looked good, bent and arched and waiting.

“I might not be flexible,” John muttered, giving Sherlock's shoulder a deep bite, “but I _am_ powerful. Surprisingly strong. Enough to overpower you. To have you... have you at my mercy, if I so wanted.” He carefully probed at Sherlock, sliding a finger in steadily. It wasn't a gentle penetration, but it wasn't too rough or unexpected either. John watched for signs of discomfort just in case, signs which didn't seem to be occurring. Sherlock just pushed himself back, chasing the sensation, greedy and lustful. "Yeah... you like that, don't you?"

“Ah… _oh God_ ,” Sherlock breathed in evident intrigue and confused pleasure, his back muscles bunching as he wiggled and arced his spine further. He took it well for a first-timer. Holding his breath and shuddering as John twisted and crooked the digit with slow, pushing, hunger. His anger was a sizzling background noise of static to the crashing, fizzing, surging arousal at having Sherlock at his mercy, under his hands, on his finger.

“You're doing so well,” John purred, barely aware of what he was saying. “Look so pretty.” He twisted and tapped inside Sherlock, and when he was happy that Sherlock could take another, he pressed his middle finger inside too. "I _hate_ how perfect you are. How easy life is for you." Continuing to bite, lick and kiss his shoulders, John worked quickly but efficiently to get Sherlock ready for him. To stretch him open. " _Fuck_ you are so bloody beautiful!"

Clenching down around him in a brief, but vice-like clamping, Sherlock rolled his hips, grunting and hissing faintly against the wall, “Can… barely see me--”

“I can see _enough_!" John barked as he flexed his hips forward, pushing his cock into plush, tensing, squirming buttocks. “I can see that you're flushed, can see the sweat pouring off you... can see that your cock is dripping all down my wallpaper...” He stilled, an idea forming, an almost sadistic joy spitting wildly up within him, and leaned over to whisper in Sherlock's ear. “Maybe I should make you _lick it up_? Clean it off with your tongue, hm?”

Sherlock bucked shyly at the suggestion, breathing out with a whine, “You… _wouldn’t_ ,” he muttered in a quiet tone, smelling like musk and sweat and heat.

"Wouldn't I?"

"You haven't got the--"

John exhaled a growl and moved once more, as quick and forceful as a lion, pulling his fingers out to grab Sherlock's waist in a bruising grasp and bending him further, one hand slapping against his back until Sherlock's face was at the right height as the smears of pre-come. He then held him down, crushing him into the mess, into the unforgiving, unyielding wall, and bent in a crouch to bury his tongue into Sherlock's hole, licking around, spearing in and giving a few licks before pulling back and giving the cheeks several loud slaps.

“Lick and I lick.”

“Wh- _what_?” he questioned with a hitching intake of air, hands flailing and knees wobbling as he tried to keep the position. “How... how can you even tell if I’ve done as you demand?” Sherlock rocked forward with another slap John gave him, fumbling to catch himself against the wall, and whined through his clenched teeth. After another commanding, sharp tap to his parted buttocks and shaking thighs, Sherlock angled his head and squashed his face into the mess, licking clumsily and noisily.

“Good lad,” John praised into Sherlock's right buttock with a smile, dipping to lick again, circling the rim and then flicking inside. Sherlock tasted like lubricant and musk and John was wild with want as he tongue fucked into the younger man, only stopping when the sounds suggested Sherlock had too. He waited, teasing with the poking point, then pulled away and left Sherlock with no stimulation at all. "You don't get something for nothing!"

Growling through his open mouth, Sherlock reached back to swat at him, only just grazing John’s face with his fingertips, “Th-that isn’t fair! - What do… you expect me to do when there is nothing else to--” Another slap, this time to the inner thigh, and Sherlock bucked awkwardly, mashing his nose and mouth to the wallpaper. He sucked at it with a high sound of craving and frustration. Toes curling when John groaned up against that intimate skin and gave the meat of his backside a stinging bite, licking rough and eager. " _Ah_! Yes... yes, please..."

John pushed two fingers back inside without warning and pressed against Sherlock's prostate, watching him practically topple over with the shock of the sharp jolt, “Nobody told you about that feeling, did they?” he smirked, coaxing more pre-come from Sherlock's heavily hanging cock with a few gentle rubs against the swollen gland. He couldn't exactly see, but he could hear. Hear the thick dribble. “I want to fuck you. Christ, I want to fuck you _now_. Tell me I can?”

“ _Yes_!” Sherlock all but cried out, temples and nape drenched with sweat. It was difficult for him to keep upright. Every time he breathed, shivered, and moaned, his legs would threaten to buckle, muscles tight. “Fuck me… do it, John. Fuh-fuck me!”

Growling, John stood and grabbed the lube again, soaking Sherlock in it and reaching for a condom without preamble. His thick, tight, rigid cock was red-tipped and swollen, leaking in broken, jingling, translucent strings that coated the inside of the condom as he slipped it on and gave himself a few tugs to ease the ache. He lined up, pushing the very tip inside the twitching, open, hungrily clinging body and held it, letting Sherlock become accustomed to the stretch, even as he reached for Sherlock's arms and pulled them backwards to hold tightly behind his back, forcing Sherlock to re-balance himself on his own two feet.

Sherlock could have fought him, denied him, twisted himself free, yet he held still with greedy impatience, perspiration running down his face, his neck, and beading in shimmering, quivering droplets down his strained back. John was met with a slight, firm resistance when he nudged further forward, the tight slide of their coupling obscenely loud, but all too soon Sherlock bared down to take him, to permit himself to be impaled, and John was bumping into him, inch by inch. It made his mind reel. It forced his eyes closed. It ignited a ravenous urge deep within.

“ _Fuck_...” John gasped, clenching his feet into the carpet and trying not to thrust in, to push or hurt. When their bodies met an eternity later, he rolled his hips, grinding in and down, attempting to find Sherlock's prostate once more. The angle wasn't great, their height differences and Sherlock's straining, struggling legs adding more ire to the situation, though John merely shifted, arched and rocked until he finally heard Sherlock make a pleased, stifling gasp. “Just _there_?”

John repeated the movement again and again and again, listening to the chorus of moans, and started a slow, gentle rhythm that rapidly became harder and deeper, faster and rougher. Taken by the motion and the fiery need to have, to take, John fucked to the broken, hoarse and then whimpering sounds of Sherlock’s building passionate mania, his long fingers going into spasm against his bowed spine as he knocked and hit his forehead into the wall. There was a moment where he lifted his head, trying to twist and rest his cheek, his chin, against it, but John’s increasing thrusts made it difficult. Sherlock didn’t complain though. Not even when, on one particularly strong snap of John’s hips, he almost fell into the solid surface entirely. He only made low, encouraging sounds, crying out and shuddering whenever John came into contact with his prostate a bit too long, a bit too vigorously, a bit too often. His toes clenched deep into the carpet.

Holding both of Sherlock's wrists tightly at the small of his back with one hand, John used his other hand to grab Sherlock's hip, then his rib and finally his hair, pulling his head back so he could see the flushed and panting face, upturned at the ceiling, "God... yeah, look at you. So dazed. So... so fucking out of control!" he grunted. It was all possibly the most reckless, stupidest thing that John had ever done, and it felt incredible. He felt as though he were intoxicated, delirious, as he vehemently thrust hard and deep. Losing himself to the slapping of their sweat-sheen skin. It was incredibly heady to see Sherlock this way, so human and debauched and needy. “Do you want me to stroke your cock?” 

Sherlock’s response was a filthy, erotic, wrecked shout of pleasure, brow furrowed and mouth open, “’M gonna…” he said, words rocky and forced out by a bouncing, grinding push. Muscles squeezing John enough to make him see stars. “’M havin’… have… havin’ a— _Yes_! Yes, make… make me come!” John wasn’t quite ready for the stiffening seizing way in which Sherlock’s body abruptly trapped him, nor the raw, deafening, cry of ecstasy as Sherlock came again, splattering the floor, the wall, in noisy, thick spurts. 

“ _Shit_!” John let of his arms and scrabbled at Sherlock's hips, only needing half a dozen more thrusts before he came with a combined shout of Sherlock's name and a curse. He went up on his toes, trying to push deeper, to extend his orgasm, but the movement forced the both of them to suddenly lose their balance, neither able to brace quite fast enough to stop them from ending up in a messy pile. Sherlock still bent, landed on his knees with his cheek against the carpet, and John fell over the top of him, almost doing the splits. “Fucking hell... That – was – _incredible_.”

Wheezing and seemingly unable to stop trembling and twitching, Sherlock gave a low keening moan, “Yes… I… I rather agree… _wholeheartedly_ so…” he said in breathless abandon, limbs limp and inelegantly tucked.

“Didn't hurt you did I?” John asked with a gasp, attempting to catch his breath. Using his unsteady, clumsy fingers to hold the base of the condom, he cautiously withdrew, rubbing his thumb across Sherlock's puffy rim and then standing on wobbly legs to take the condom and dispose of it. " _Sherlock_?"

He had slumped bonelessly to the floor at being left, tucking his uncoordinated arms under his chest, “ _Yes_ ,” he sighed contentedly, sounding almost drunk.

“Worth it then?” John snorted, cleaning himself up with one of his vests, which he took back to wipe up the come that was dripping down his wall, skirting boards and carpet. As carefully as he could, John reached down and half lifted, half dragged, Sherlock until he was at the edge of the bed and he could haul him up and throw him down on the mattress. “Might as well sleep it off on the bed, rather than the floor.” He leaned down to kiss the top of Sherlock's head with a low laugh. "I'm not a _complete_ brute."

“Mm. You should be. Sometimes. I suppose I do deserve it,” Sherlock slurred, eyes open a slither and mouth curling upwards flirtatiously, impishly. “I can be such a bad, _bad_ boy.”

John snarled loudly with playful intent and threw himself back over Sherlock.

Might as well make the most of the opportunity whilst it was there, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Something else that inspired us was the message that was left on the end of simplyclockwork's story, because unfortunately we get the same frustrating comments.  
> So here is our message to those people who think it's necessary to demand certain things:
> 
> If you are going to comment about our decision with the length/description of a character's penis and/or lack thereof; with how submissive/dominant a character seems to be to you; or how a certain character should sound, please don't bother. If you want specifics, want things to fit your interests, then either request a story or move on. 
> 
> Constructive criticisms are welcomed!
> 
> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/naughtystepkit)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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